


out of touch

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 12:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12481472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: Jeremy turns up on Richard's doorstep on a Sunday afternoon, drunk out of his mind.





	out of touch

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally published on the 16th September 2015 (by me under a different username) and I'm reuploading it now as a process of moving my works from one account to the other.
> 
> I, uh, make no assurances to its quality, since it was my first work in the fandom. I've edited it for grammar and punctuation mistakes, but otherwise it's the original in all its dubious glory. Enjoy.

The doorbell rings, jolting Richard out of his sleep: he’d drifted off on the sofa in front of the telly, watching old reruns of _Top Gear_. Usually they didn’t make him fall asleep, just bored—he must _really_ be getting old, he thinks as he hauls himself up and heads towards the front door, wondering who on earth would be ringing his doorbell at 3 pm on a Sunday afternoon.

To his surprise—and slight annoyance, if he’s honest—it’s Jeremy on his doorstep, swaying slightly as he leans on the wall. His face brightens when he sees Richard, a smile splitting his face in two.

“Rich! My favourite little pikey,” he slurs, shoving himself off the wall and lurching forward to grab onto Richard’s shoulder.

Richard’s breath hitches in his throat. It’s Richard, it’s never Rich to Jeremy—what the hell is going on?

“God, Jeremy, you’re plastered.” He grimaces, looking over Jeremy’s shoulder, down the street to see if he can see his Merc parked anywhere—the last thing they need right now is some bloody paparazzi catching him drink driving. “Did you drive here?”

Jeremy leans a little bit closer, looking down at Richard, and not for the first time he’s a little surprised as to just how much of Jeremy there is, and how imposing he can be. “No, I did not. I’m not stupid,” he replies with a surprising level of shrewdness, considering his sobriety, before shoving past Richard, muttering to himself as he goes.

Richard turns and watches him walk down the hallway—one hand braced on the wall so as not to fall over—and shakes his head. Thank god for that small miracle, at least—now he’s just got to deal with a very drunk Jeremy, something he’s done many times before.

***

Jeremy flops down on his sofa with a groan and flings one arm over his eyes melodramatically. “I am _dead_ , Rich.”

Richard hovers in the doorway, unsure of where to sit—Jeremy is taking up the entire sofa and then some, so he lowers himself into the closest armchair and sits forward. “Fortunately, Jeremy, you’re not dead. Just being irritating, as usual.”

Jeremy lets out a muffled groan that—oddly—sounds rather sexual. Richard lets that thought settle for a bit, worm its way down his spine, making him shiver, making his fingers clench on the leather armrest, before banishing it from his head. Intrusive thoughts have been worming their way into his mind lately, intrusive thoughts about Jeremy, no less, but he ignores them, brushes them off as a sign of his impending midlife crisis.

Snapping himself out of it, he leans forward, watching the way Jeremy’s chest rises and falls as he breathes, in and out. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Without missing a beat, Jeremy slurs back, “I was in the area. Thought I’d pop round for a cuppa.”

Richard shakes his head. “Bullshit. What were you doing around here? Your flat’s all the way on the other side of London. What’s ‘in the area’ for you at three pm on a Sunday?”

“Can’t I come around and see my mate? Since when did a Sunday afternoon visit deserve a round of twenty questions?” Jeremy splutters.

Richard sits back at that. Before… Before all of this, before the divorces, the fracas, the awful year they’d had—no, before all that, an unexpected visit wasn’t met with questions. But now? Now that the paps followed Jeremy everywhere like bloodhounds on a scent, now that their futures hung in the air, uncertain and hazy, now that Jeremy spent most of his time holed up in his flat doing god-knows-what… Yes, now, it was unexpected.

Especially since Jeremy is pissed, on a Sunday—some dim part of Richard realises he really shouldn’t be shocked, Jeremy’s done more scandalous things—without a reason to be here… something’s up.

Something inside Richard snaps and, abruptly, he gets up to the fridge and grabs two bottles of beer, sets one on the table in front of Jeremy and sits back down.

The clink of glass on the table makes Jeremy sit up. He looks at the beer, and back at Richard, and raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Richard grins, takes a swig. “You don’t need any help from me with that, mate. Besides, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Cheers.”

He leans forward, but Jeremy leans forward too, and suddenly Jeremy is right _there_ , blue eyes blinking languidly, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He’s got a layer of stubble and, abstractly, Richard wonders what it would be like to kiss him, to feel the bristles on his face, rough against his cheek.

Jesus. Where had _that_ come from? Awkwardly, he leans back and swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. Jeremy, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere, heaves himself up to a sitting position and takes a long pull from his beer. Richard has to avert his eyes from the way Jeremy’s adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the effortless companionship that comes with years of friendship. Richard keeps finding his eyes coming back to rest on Jeremy’s profile, the way he wets his lips before he drinks, the way his eyelashes fan against his cheek when he blinks.

“I’m thinking of growing a goatee,” he blurts, apropos of nothing, making Jeremy jump.

The older man studies him, his eyes lingering on his mouth—or is Richard just imagining that?—and smirks. Just how drunk is he, anyway? “Rich, that will look absurd.”

There it is again— _Rich_ —that name that Jeremy never uses for him. Before he can think too much about it, he plows forward, ignoring the way his stomach is lurching. “It might make me look younger.”

A strange, unreadable expression passes over Jeremy’s face at that, and he slumps down further on the sofa and mutters, somewhat bitterly, “Like you need that.”

The mood changes, subtly, but Richard senses it. “Well, I am getting older, and I need to keep myself distinctly separate from you two tragics—”

“Piss off,” Jeremy sighs, head lolling around to stare Richard down. “You’re gorgeous. Look at me. I’m fat, balding, my body’s starting to pack it in…” He looks down at his gut and pokes it. “I’m old.”

Richard’s heart is jumping around in his chest—he half expects it to burst out of his ribs and skitter along the floor, leave him dead and gasping. Did Jeremy—did he really just call him gorgeous? He doesn’t really have time to focus on it, though, as the reality of Jeremy’s other words sinks in.

“It’s a bit late for you to be worried about the balding part, mate, you’ve been losing your hair for as long as I’ve known you,” he replies. “You have put on weight, but that’s to be expected, we’ve had a rough year…” He trails off, realising how weak his argument sounds.

Jeremy looks him up and down and sneers, his demeanour changing from gloomy to to snide in an instant. “Yeah? And what’s that rough year done to you, hmm? You still have everything. You’re still talking to Mindy. You still get to be a father to Willow and Izzy, you still have a future, you still have a body that works, you still have the BBC clamouring to get you back—what _don’t_ you have, Richard? I have nothing.”

Richard bristles, his temper flaring. “What _don’t_ I have? I don’t have a wife anymore, Jeremy. Did you miss the part where I got fucking divorced? Just like you?” Albeit, it wasn’t as messy as Jeremy’s divorce was, but his anger consumes him. “Did you miss the part where I walked away from my _job_ for you? Did you miss the part where I gave up everything for you, you big selfish—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because, with a lithe gracefulness that belies his size, Jeremy launches at him, bringing their faces together in a crushing kiss.

 _Oh_ , Richard thinks. _Oh, oh, oh_. Their argument melts away as, automatically, his hand twists in Jeremy’s hair, tugging gently on the soft curls. Jeremy’s mouth is rough and insistent and oh, god, it’s been years since he’s kissed a man but it’s better than he remembers, maybe because it’s Jeremy leaning down, arms pressing either side of Richards hips, maybe because it’s Jeremy’s tongue touching his, Jeremy’s stubble scraping against his face—it feels exactly the way he imagined—Jeremy’s voice making breathy little noises—

And then he pulls back and Richard whines a little bit, touching his lips gently as he looks up at Jeremy, both breathing hard.

“Christ, Rich,” Jeremy breathes, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Richard replies stupidly, still staring at Jeremy, unsure of what to do now—he wants to leap up and keep kissing him, throw him down onto the sofa and straddle him, feel Jeremy’s hands on his thighs—but he doesn’t know what’s okay and what’s not, so he hesitates.

Jeremy pulls back with a grimace. “I knew kissing you would put my back out, I just knew it.” He sags back onto the sofa. “Now I really am dead. Killed by Richard Hammond and his homosexualist tendencies.”

Richard bristles again. “ _You_ kissed _me_ , you oaf! Don’t try and pin this on me.” Inwardly, he knows he would have kissed Jeremy first if he’d had the guts, but he keeps that to himself for the moment.

“Did I? I suppose I did,” Jeremy replies sardonically. “You were blathering on and on and being so very irritating so I figured the best way to shut you up was to—”

Richard, his heart in his mouth, mirrors Jeremy’s movement from just a few moments ago, lunging at the older man and sliding onto his lap, straddling him, smiling smugly as he kisses Jeremy, shutting _him_ up.

This is different, this kiss: it’s tentative, exploratory, tender. Jeremy’s big hands come to rest on Richard’s hips, the pad of his thumb absentmindedly stroking the skin underneath his t-shirt. The feeling of it sends electricity to every pore, every nerve – he feels completely and totally alive like this, with Jeremy kissing him languidly, cock hardening in his jeans as the kiss grows deeper. Jeremy’s hands slip under his shirt now, skittering up his back, down to pinch a nipple. He hisses and bites Jeremy’s lower lip, feels the older man stiffen and pull him closer, until every inch of them is touching, and Richard feels like he’s burning up in the sweetest, best way.

He breaks it a moment later, unsure of where this is going, how far Jeremy is willing to go. They sit like that for a minute, Richard’s forehead resting against Jeremy’s, waiting until their breathing comes back to regular. He watches the older man, who looks so peaceful with his eyes shut like this. Peaceful and beautiful.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” he whispers.

Jeremy’s eyes open, startled, before he masks it and smiles. “Well I’m honestly surprised you lasted this long, with me being such a heartthrob and all…” He smirks. “Probably not as long as me, though.”

Richard fingers the buttons on Jeremy’s shirt. “Did you mean what you said earlier? About… about me having everything?”

Jeremy winces. “It was the alcohol talking.”

Richard uses Jeremy’s chest as a springboard and pushes himself upright, frowning. “If you’re that drunk—which, by the way, I don’t think you you are—then you must be having a serious case of the beer goggles right now.”

Jeremy smiles, and it’s a shy, sweet smile. He reaches out and caresses Richard’s face, and Richard leans into the touch, relaxing instantly. “I could never mistake this for what it isn't.”

“Which is?”

“Two old men having a midlife crisis,” Jeremy sighs, sadness coming back around him like a wreath.

Rolling his eyes, Richard slides off Jeremy’s lap and moves over so he’s sitting next to them, their thighs touching. “Bit late for you. But don’t evade. What _was_ that about?”

Jeremy closes his eyes, as if what’s coming is difficult to say, like he can’t look at Richard. “You’ve always seemed to have it all—the perfect family, the perfect career, everything. Even when you got divorced, it didn’t throw you off —you just kept going, while… while everything fell down around me.”

Richard goes very, very still. As long as they’ve been friends, he can only count a few times that Jeremy has bared his soul. He just isn’t one for sharing, prefers to bottle it up, or, rather, drown it all in a bottle. This is a rarity, so he doesn’t want to spoil the moment.

“I cocked it all up, didn’t I?” Jeremy asks, and Richard starts to protest, but he keeps going. “I threw every good thing I had in my life away, ruined it. Top Gear, my family. It’s all gone.”

Richard doesn’t move, doesn’t know how to fix this. The sight of Jeremy, still and sad, holding back tears, is something that tears his heart utterly in two. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do, so he follows his instincts and tells Jeremy, frankly and honestly, “I wouldn’t have anything if I didn’t have you.”

Jeremy looks at him, just _looks_ at him, and he looks so sad and pathetic Richard leans forward and kisses him again, angrily—he wants, no, _needs_ Jeremy to know how much he means to him. Hands fisting in Jeremy’s shirt, he scrabbles for purchase, pulling the older man closer, as close as can be, needs to feel Jeremy here, like this, now.

He pulls back, gasping, suddenly furious. “You are everything to me, Jeremy. I would do anything for you.” He smiles then, gently. “You great big idiot.”

Jeremy doesn’t say anything, just pulls Richard back in for another kiss, but he’s smiling, and Richard’s heart sings.

Everything will be okay. He knows it.


End file.
